CT 



THE NEARNESS OF DEATH: 



BEING THE 



SUBSTANCE OF A SERMON 



PREACHED IN 



ST. JOHNS CHURCH, RICHMOND, 



ON 



WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, OCTOBER 22, 1851, 



ON THE OCCASION OF 



THE DEATH OF MR. JOHN ENDERS, SR. 



S WHO, IN CONSEQUENCE OF THE BREAKING OF THE LADDER ON WHICH HE 
S WAS DESCENDING FROM ONE OF HIS BUILDINGS, FELL TO THE 

STORY BELOW, AND WAS INSTANTLY KILLED. 



In the midst of life we are in death." — Burial Service. 



BY H. S. KEPPLER, RECTOR. 



RICHMOND: 

PRIXTED BY P. 1>. BERNARD, SOUTH TWELFTH STREET. 
1851. 



THE NEARNESS OF DEATH: 



BEING THE 



SUBSTANCE OE A SERMON 



PREACHED IN 



ST. JOHN'S CHURCH, RICHMOND, 



ON 



WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, OCTOBER 22, 1852, 



ON THE OCCASION OF 



THE DEATH OF MR. JOHN ENDERS, SR 



WHO, IN CONSEQUENCE OF THE BREAKING OF THE LADDER ON WHICH HE 

WAS DESCENDING FROM ONE OF HIS BUILDINGS, FELL TO THE 

STORY BELOW, AND WAS INSTANTLY KILLED. 



"In the midst of life we are in death." — Burial Service. 



BY H. S. KEPPLER, RECTOR. 



RICHMOND: 

PRINTED BY P. D. BERNARD, SOUTH TWELFTH STREET. 

1851. 



r 



«tf*> 



& % 



f* 







CORRESPONDENCE. 



To Mr. John Enders, Jr. 

My Dear Friend, — I am sorry that I have not been able to comply with your 
request sooner. The sermon delivered at the funeral of your late revered parent 
was altogether extemporaneous. Could I have written it out immediately after 
it was delivered, I might have preserved the arrangement and the language, with 
but little variation. As it is, I fear you will find the language somewhat different, 
whilst the thoughts are more amplified. None of the original thoughts, I hope, 
have been left out, but their amplification has made the sermon much longer on 
paper than it was when delivered from the pulpit. 

If it should be the means of any comfort to you and the members of your late 
father's family, in the severe bereavement which has befallen you and them, I 
shall sincerely rejoice. May the Lord bless you all, and sanctify this unlooked- 
for affliction to your good. 

Yours, sincerely, 

H. S. KEPPLER. 

Rectory of St. John's, Nov. 10, 1851. 



o 



"O God, whose days are without end, and 
whose mercies cannot be numbered; make us, 
we beseech Thee, deeply sensible of the short- 
ness and uncertainty of human life; and let 
Thy Holy Spirit lead us through this vale 
of misery, in holiness and righteousness, all 
the days of our lives; that, when we shall 
have served Thee in our generation, we may be 
gathered unto our fathers, having the testimony 
of a good conscience; in the communion of 
the catholic church; in the confidence of a 
certain faith; in the comfort of a reasonable, 
religious and holy hope; in favor with Thee our 
God, and in perfect charity with the world; all 
which we ask through Jesus Christ our Lord. 
Amen." 







SERMON. 



I. Samuel xx. 3: "As the Lord liveth, and as thy soul liveth, there is but a step 
between me and death." 

But who of this crowded assembly believes this startling asser- 
tion? Who believes that between himself and death, "there is but 
a step?" And yet, with the affecting spectacle of death's doings be- 
fore our eyes, the sad occasion of our present mournful convocation, 
it may be asked, who can do otherwise than believe it? And yet, 
again, when we consider the little, the almost no influence which this 
solemn and awakening truth exerts, even over those who profess 
to believe it, we might be led to conclude that the number of 
those who seriously believe it, is exceedingly limited. Perhaps 
the state of mind in which this truth is generally regarded would 
be more accurately described as not disbelieving, rather than as 
truly believing it. It is always an unwelcome truth. The hearty 
belief of it, so as to allow it to occupy its proper position of in- 
fluence as a regulator of the motions of the heart, and the actions 
of the life, would interfere with many a cherished passion of the 
unsanctified heart, and disappoint its fondest hopes of worldly 
ambition and pleasure. And whilst, on the one hand, its proofs 
are too apparent and too strong to admit of its rejection, and men 
are unwilling, on the other hand, to make the sacrifices, and per- 
form the duties, which the consistent belief of it requires, their 
only alternative is to fall upon some compromise, which, if it will 
not in truth reconcile their professed faith with their practice, 
will at least have the semblance of doing so. And this is done 
by professing to hold to the truth, but so as not to allow it to in- 
fluence the life. They hold it as truth to be assented to — to be 
thought of at a funeral, or on some other solemn occasion, and 
then to give place to the returning, engrossing engagements and 
pleasures of the world. 

That there is an error here, fundamental and dangerous in its 
nature, and of most fearful prevalence, is too obvious to admit of 
doubt. But how is this dangerous error to be corrected? Where 



6 

shall we find the antidote to that insidious poison, which, under 
the semblance of admitting the truth, composes the soul to sleep 
quietly over its claims as an operative principle? How shall we 
administer to a mind thus diseased — a mind that lays to itself the 
flattering unction, that the mere holding to the truth, or the not 
disbelieving it, will, in some sense, excuse that thoughtlessness as 
to eternal things, and that excessive devotion to the things of this 
world, which can only be reconciled with its formal rejection ? 

The remedy for this evil, brethren, must be sought for, and 
found, in the truth itself. It must be presented with clear- 
ness and power. The inconsistency and practical infidelity of 
receiving it in theory only, must be logically traced, and faithfully 
exposed. And its claims to moderate the feverish ardors of earthly 
pursuits, and to mould the life to a holy and heavenward aim, 
must be distinctly set forth, and pressed upon the conscience, by 
all the arguments of duty and gratitude, of hope and fear. To 
this clear and forcible setting forth of the truth, which the un- 
yielding nature of the unrenewed heart may require to be oft 
repeated, we must join our hearty prayers for the outgoings of 
that Divine Spirit, " the Lord and giver of life," that He would 
take of the truth, and so " show" it to the heart, that under His 
own sanctifying influence, it may become the germinating seed of 
a new and heavenly life. 

We know of no other remedy than this — and this is our apo- 
logy — if an apology be necessary — for the attempt we are now 
about to make to press upon your attention an old and important 
truth — a truth which you have been familiar with from your 
childhood — which no one denies — and yet which few, very few, 
heed as they should. 

Nothing is more usual on funeral occasions than to indulge in 
reflections on the brevity and uncertainty of life. Friends meet 
together in solemn groups, and whilst in chastened discourse 
they recount the last words and acts of the deceased, and dwell 
upon the many noble traits which adorned his character, the ex- 
pression of their condolence is associated with many reflections 
on the frailty of life, and the certainty of death. Far be it from 
me to condemn the utterance of such reflections on such occasions. 
They are such as the visitation of death would most naturally 
suggest, and the Bible commands them as most appropriate to so 
solemn an event. But what I complain of is, that in too many 
instances they are prompted, not by the deep feeling of the heart, 



which is always salutary, but by a mere regard to the fitness of 
the occasion, without being followed by any useful practical results. 
And in the same way, when the faithful pastor, in performing the 
last solemn duties of his office, dwells upon the same awakening 
truths, they are listened to by many with no other feelings than 
such as are inspired by respect for the memory of the dead, and 
a due regard to them, as the mere appropriate solemnities of pro- 
fessional duty. 

To the offering of these cold, premeditated forms of respect, as 
comprising the whole duty which the decencies and solemnities 
of the occasion require, we are compelled to speak in the strong 
language of rebuke. But I trust that this censure will not fall on 
you. I hope that your assembling here to-day has been prompted 
by nobler impulses — that you have come here not only from a 
sincere respect for the memory of a venerated friend, but also 
with an earnest desire to improve the affecting providence of his 
sudden removal, by treasuring up the wise and wholesome lessons 
it so impressively teaches. Then let the world, with its bustling 
scenes and distracting cares, retire. And here, in this sacred edi- 
fice, where our fathers worshipped for more than a century past, 
and around which their wasted forms are sleeping, each in its 
narrow cell — here, whilst the cold corpse of our departed friend 
is for the last time with us, and tears of sympathy and love are 
flowing, let us give up ourselves for one short hour to holy com- 
munings with our souls, and to serious, practical thoughts of that 
spirit-land on whose confines we are now and always walking. 
In the fellowship of these holy sympathies, brethren, I desire, now 
and here, to meet you, and mingling with the discharge of pro- 
fessional duty the sacred feelings which our common brotherhood 
and our common mortality ought always to inspire, I would speak 
to you with all plainness and fidelity, 

"As though I ne'er should speak again, 
Myself a dying man, to dying men." 

I would speak to you of the nearness of death, and of that long 
neglected duty of preparing for it, to which, in this startling and 
distressing providence, God is giving you another call. O, it is a 
solemn call ! and though we should be far from maintaining that 
to give it were the only design of this providence, yet when Death 
comes thus suddenly amongst us and strikes down his victim from 
amidst the cares and activities of life, who can contemplate the 



8 
• *■* 

astounding blow, without feeling that the unrevealed hand which 
dealt it may be very near to him ! Who can feel himself secure? 
What hold have you of life; what security against its invasion, 
which our venerated friend did not possess? He was aged, it is 
true, and you may be young. But then his old age was one of 
uncommon vigor, 



As a lusty winter. 



Frosty, but kindly." 

He did not waste away by the decays of age; and there is, there- 
fore, no ground for you to presume on your superior strength. If 
wealth could have satisfied the demands of Death, its treasures 
would have been poured out at his feet. If extensive business 
connexions, and usefulness, and the keen sense of loss and embar- 
rassment which his sudden removal would cause, could have 
shielded him from the stroke, he would not now be numbered 
amongst the dead. If the respect of a large circle of friends and 
fellow-citizens, and the gratitude of the many who had shared his 
generous aid, could have stayed the hand of death, he would still 
be amongst the living. If the prayers of his pastor, and the high 
esteem of his brother vestrymen, with whom he had for so many 
years taken counsel in watching over the interests of the old 
church of his early, and unwavering love, could have exerted any 
influence to change the purpose of the gloomy monster, that pale 
corpse would not now be sleeping in its narrow house. If the 
dutiful affection of wife and children, if the eloquence of tears, of 
prayers and entreaties, could have softened the inexorable heart 
of Death, and caused him to relent, then that revered form would 
not be, as it now is, and will be, so painfully missed in the habita- 
tion which had been so long made happy by his presence, and 
from which he has been borne to return no more forever. 

What have you, then, brethren, I again ask, to render you 
secure against the ravages of death, which he had not? Then 
how solemn is the warning which this sad scene gives! How 
loud is the call which bids you prepare ! " Therefore be ye also 
ready, for in such an hour as ye think not, the son of man cometh." 
" There is but a step between us and death !" 

With such an affecting confirmation of this sad truth before us, 
it would seem almost like a needless consumption of time, and 
waste of words, to say anything further in its proof or illustration* 
But it is profitable to linger amidst the scenes where such lessons 



9 

are taught. " It is better to go to the house of mourning than to 
the house of feasting." Bear with me then, brethren, and keep 
your thoughts still fixed on this truth, whilst I proceed to adduce 
a few illustrations of it from the sacred Scriptures. 

And I would first ask your attention to the solemn allusions 
with which it is taught in the text. "As the Lord liveth" — and 
what can be more certain than the existence of God ? He is 
described by the inspired writers as "the living God" — "living," 
in a sense entirely different from all other beings — for theirs is a 
derived and dependent life. And this is true, as well of the 
mightiest seraph whose energies are poured forth amidst the 
splendors of the eternal throne, as it is of the tiny insect that 
flutters away its ephemeral life within the short compass of the 
rising and setting sun. But "God hath life in himself" There 
never was a time when he did not have it. There never can be 
a time when he will not have it. "He hath life in himself" — un- 
derived, independent, and eternal. He is the source and fountain 
of life to all other beings, " giving to all life and breath, and all 
things." 

Passing down through the intermediate link of being between 
man and Deity, we come to the second allusion of the text, which 
is the human soul. And as the existence of God is the highest 
kind of life, in those blest regions where the foot prints of death 
are unknown, so' the life of the soul is the highest kind of life 
known in this lower world, amidst the numerous tribes that swarm 
the air and people the earth. When God made man he appointed 
him to the highest post of dignity in this lower world — to have 
dominion over all its inferior creatures. And, whilst in rearing 
the noble structure of his body from materials so frail and so vile 
as dust, he so willed that it should stand forth as a monument of 
his skill and power, yet, it was upon the nature and attributes of 
the soul, that he was pleased to lavish his creative energies. 
Taking his own ineffable being as the model of its nature, he 
breathed it out, so to speak, from himself, and ordained it, not only 
to give life and motion to the delicately organized body, already 
prepared for its reception, but also to stand forth to men on earth, 
and to "the principalities and powers in the heavenly places," as 
a transcript of his own nature, a beautiful picture of his own 
immortality. 

Noble as is "the human form divine" as we see it moving in 
peerless dignity and stately bearing amongst the inferior creatures 
2 



10 

of earth, yet, what would it be were it not for its union with that 
higher and nobler nature, "the divinity that dwells within?" It 
is this that robes it in dignity and honor — that gives it life and 
motion, and makes it what it is. 'Tis this that darts the com- 
manding look, the keen glance of intelligence from the eye — that 
lights up the face with the kindling emotions of hope and joy — 
that throws over its features the attractive, the heavenly expres- 
sion of wisdom and benevolence. This gives wisdom and skill 
to "the cunning workman," and nerves his arm with vigor to do 
and to endure. This gives to man, otherwise inert and motionless, 
a kind of ubiquity, by teaching him how to move the mountain 
from his path — to make his highway in the sea, and to compete 
with the lightning's speed in the transmission of his behests to the 
most distant parts of the habitable globe. 

Take this away and what is man? There lies the "well 
wrought frame" of the body. All its organs are as perfect as 
they were when the spirit left it. The eye, the hand, the foot, 
and all the complicated machinery through which its motions 
were conducted, and the stupendous works of art accomplished, 
are all there. But how changed and despoiled of all that clothed 
them in beauty and gave them life and vigor ! Where is the 
intelligence that once flashed from that eye, now so sunken and 
seared? Why is that tongue, whose words of wisdom and love 
were once the delight of the domestic and scfcial circle, or on 
whose impassioned strains listening multitudes once hung with 
rapture, now so motionless and still? Friends, the most valued 
and beloved, may repair to the well known habitation, but the 
voice that had so often welcomed them, now greets them not. 
Wife and children, names that betoken holy love and sacred sym- 
pathies, whose familiar and household voices were never heard 
without sending a thrill of tenderness across the heart, now linger 
around the sleeping form with bitter cries and tears; and then, as 
if unable to believe the sad reality, they seem to wait for the eye 
to open, and the lips to speak. One glance from that eye, one 
word from those lips as in by-gone days, would hush those cries, 
and cause the hearts of these sad ones "to dance with joy." But 
no kind look beams from that eye, no word of comfort distills 
from those lips. All is cold and motionless, insensible and dead ! 

But where is the spirit that so lately animated this well orga- 
nized frame? Is that dead also? By a mysterious tie it was 
linked in intimate companionship with the body — so intimate, that 



11 

reason might almost doubt whether they were distinct in nature, 
or whether the higher attributes of the one did not flow from the 
more highly wrought and exquisite mechanism of the same ma- 
terials. If they be the same in nature, can the one survive the 
dissolution of the other? Can it live and act when dislodged from 
its habitation, and separated from those organs through which its 
existence could alone be manifested and felt? Must it not, from 
the very nature of its companionship with the body, be doomed 
to feel its changes, and to share its fortunes? 

But why ask these questions? Why degrade man to the level 
of the worm of the grave that preys upon his decaying flesh? 
Why give up all to death? Why seek for the soul amidst the 
darkness and gloom of the grave ? It is not here. It never has 
been, it never will be found here. The grave is not its place. It 
is of a nature that "death hath no dominion over" — so ethereal, so 
simple and uncom pounded in its essence, that it cannot be destroyed 
by the shock of any outward violence, or die from the dissolution 
of its parts. But in addition to this, the continued existence of 
the soul is infallibly secured by the will of its Creator. This last 
is the highest argument we have to offer in support of the soul's 
immortality; and this alone would be sufficient to establish it, even 
though we might be incapable of demonstrating its natural capacity 
for so exalted a destiny. 

Here then, brethren, we may turn away from the humiliating 
scenes of mutability and decay with which we are surrounded, 
and contemplate two natures, God and the soul, which are above 
the action and influence of these laws : the one, unoriginated and 
eternal — the other, deriving its existence in time from the Great 
Original, but destined by his unalterable fiat to live onward and 
forever. Nothing can be more certain than the unchanging ex- 
istence of these two natures, God and the soul. 

Now it is to these two verities that the author of our text ap- 
peals in confirmation of the truth he propounds. See him, as he 
reverently places his hand on the eternal throne, and derives from 
the contact a fresh assurance of its stability, and then turning to 
the soul, ordained to immortality by the unchangeable behest of 
Him who sits upon that throne, and then hear his solemn announce- 
ment of the humiliating truth of human frailty, the startling warning 
of the nearness of death — "As the Lord liveth, and as thy soul 
liveth, there is but a step between me and death." If it be a most 
certain truth that God , lives, and that the soul lives, it is not a 



ft* 



12 

whit less certainly true, that "there is but a step between you 
and death." 

This "step" may be taken at any period. From infancy to old 
age, at every movement of our shadowy life, Death is standing 
over us, or lurking in our path, ready to execute his commission 
to destroy. Amidst the sports of childhood, and the gayeties of 
youth; in the bridal circle, and the halls of merriment; amidst the 
bustling cares of commerce, and the din of the workshop; in the 
senate and in the pulpit, may be seen the sad memorials of Death's 
awful doings. What age, what period of life remains unscathed 
by his awful spear? Where is the spot in this wide world of wo 
which has never resounded with his footfalls? Where is the 
family that has never felt or trembled under an apprehension of 
his dreaded visits? He breathes upon the air, and the pestilence 
sweeps us away. The insidious poison may lurk undetected in 
our food, and the houses we build to protect us may fall and crush 
us ! 

But should we escape the shocks of disaster, and the devas- 
tating power of the pestilence, we are still liable to the inroads of 
death from the natural and unavoidable wastes of life, the wear 
and tear of its complicated machinery. The energies which are 
necessary to keep it in motion, waste it. Tn the very process of 
receiving nourishment, the vital functions are weakened and ren- 
dered thereby less able to perform their daily task. In the lan- 
guage of the apostle we may say, "I die daily." O, how much 
of life is gone already. We talk of dying as something future, 
as an act which is to take place at some distant period. But we 
are always dying. We begin to die the moment we begin to live, 

"As tapers waste the instant they take fire." 

The commencement of a day, a month, or a year, implies the 
death of that which preceded it; and the final hour which sepa- 
rates the soul from the body, and closes forever the mortal scene, 
is but the consummation of that dying process which has been 
going on throughout the whole period of life. 

Amidst the absorbing cares and business of the world, we too 
easily learn to forget our frailty, and to neglect the important 
duties to which a just sense of it will always prompt. And, as if 
to counteract this dangerous effect of the world's influence, the 
Holy Spirit has written it upon the scenes and objects which con- 
stantly meet us in our daily rounds of business and pleasure, so 



13 

that we cannot lift up our eyes to the scenes of celestial grandeur 
which open upon us from the heavens above, or look upon the 
landscapes of earth, spread out before us in all the charms of 
rural loveliness, or think of the vehicles of commerce and the 
implements of industrial life, without being reminded of our frailty, 
and the rapidity with which life is passing away. 

When you see the sun shining in his strength, or mark the 
lengthening shadows cast by his setting beams, remember that he 
is measuring out your days, and call to mind those impressive 
words of the Psalmist, " My days are like a shadow that declineth." 

When you see the moon gliding with queen-like majesty through 
the sky, and the stars, those lesser lights, marching through their 
trackless solitudes in the performance of their ample rounds, re- 
member that these bright chronometers are marking the rapid 
flight of your time, and think with David of the infinite love of 
Him, who though so high above them all, stoops to " visit" you 
with his mercy, and to extend over you the protection of his 
" mindful" care. 

When your delighted eye is enjoying the luxury of a verdant 
lawn, or a rich parterre, let this lovely scene remind you of your 
frailty. "As for man his days are as grass ; as a flower of the 
field so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it and it is 
gone, and the place thereof shall know it no more." 

When you stand upon the green banks of the rippling brook, 
and see its waters, ever coming and ever hastening away, think of 
the current of life which is ever flowing onward, and which will 
soon " carry you away as with a flood" to the ocean of eternity. 

When you see the shuttle flying through the loom, or the stately 
ship walking over the waste of waters, "as a thing of life," O, 
remember that your "days are swifter than a weaver's shuttle," 
and that "they pass away like the swift ships." With such speed, 
the warp of life will soon be woven — the port of eternity soon 
entered. 

In fine, what is the earth itself but a vast remembrancer that 
we "dwell in houses of clay, whose foundation is in the dust," 
and that the time must soon come when the final words will be 
pronounced over each one of us, "earth to earth, ashes to ashes, 
dust to dust." 

"What is the world 1 
What, but a spacious burial field unwall'd? 
The very turf on which we tread once lived !" 



14 

But, should these illustrations fail to impress you, then turn once 
more to the sad scene in which we are ourselves the actors. 
What means this slow and solemn procession? Why all this toil 
and labor to bear the cold corpse, now sleeping in its narrow 
house, along that very path which its own foot had trodden for so 
many years, and so recently for the last time! Little did I think, 
when on Sunday last I saw that venerable form enter that door, 
and move along the aisle to his accustomed place in the church, 
that he was taking that place for the last time, to sing his last 
hymn, to pray his last prayer, and to hear his last sermon. That 
place which knew him for so many years, and which never, or 
seldom missed him, will know him no more forever. Who of us 
could have thought, when we so recently saw him in that place, 
that we should be here to-day to mingle our tears over his sudden 
fall, and to receive from his unspeaking lips the important but too 
unheeded lesson of our frailty. " Surely there was but a step 
between him and death," and we knew it not. When, and where, 
and under what circumstances that step would be taken, were 
hidden in the mysterious future, only to be developed by the awful 
shock which told us that it was past ! Who can say that there is 
not, in like manner, but a step between himself and death? And if 
that doomed one could but know it, O, what a change would it 
make in his views of life and death ! What a feeling of indiffer- 
ence would it produce to the objects around him that now occupy 
all his heart ! And how sincerely and zealously would that heart 
be given up to the important work of preparing for death ! But 
why should the knowing of it produce such a change, when we 
all know that it is a doom from which no one knows that he is 
exempt ! 

But short and uncertain as life is, it assumes a position of un- 
speakable importance when viewed in connexion with the life to 
come. Of the existence of that future state, the brevity of life, 
in connexion with its many evils, forms a most convincing proof. 
Without this it is impossible to find any adequate end to justify 
the expenditure of wisdom and power which was lavished upon 
man's creation. His powers are evidently above his situation ; 
and he feels wants and desires which nothing within his reach can 
relieve or satisfy. He is a contradiction of all the analogies of 
nature. He is God-like in the powers of his soul, immortal in his 
longings, and yet the frail creature of mortality, whose being is 
extinguished in the grave ! " There is hope of a tree if it be cut 



15 

down that it will sprout again, and that the tender branch thereof 
will not cease." The grain that seems to die in the earth will yet 
germinate, and reproduce itself in the same perfection, and in in- 
creased abundance. " But man dieth and wasteth away, yea, man 
giveth up the ghost, and where is he? As the waters fail from 
the sea, and the flood decayeth and drieth up, so man lieth down, 
and riseth not; till the heavens be no more they shall not awake 
nor be raised out of their sleep." 

Such would be the gloomy picture of life, and such its still more 
gloomy termination, were there no second spring to visit the drea- 
riness of the grave. Grant this, and all is plain. All the enigmas 
of life are explained and reconciled. Man stands forth in his true 
character. His powers and his destiny appear in their proper 
proportions, and the darkness that enveloped his death is scattered 
as the mists of the morning by the rising sun. New forms of life 
and beauty rise up from the gloomy tenantry of the grave, and 
march onward to their high destiny of immortality, whilst the note 
of triumph, "death is swallowed up in victory," lingering and 
swelling amidst the heights of Zion, sends a thrill of joy to the 
bosoms of angels, and a tide of disappointment and wo to the 
malignant spirits of the pit. 

In this light, brethren, how important is life ? Who can ade- 
quately estimate its value? If short, and uncertain, there is the 
more reason why it should be diligently improved in preparing 
for eternity. It is " the time of visitation" which we must know, 
in its value and use, and in the gracious aids it supplies. It is "a 
time accepted" when God waits to be gracious — a "day of salva- 
tion," when, by sincere "repentance towards God, and faith in our 
Lord Jesus Christ," we may obtain pardon for our sins, and "a 
good hope through grace" of everlasting life. It is our seed time 
which we must diligently improve for the coming harvest. In 
this sense, none of your actions can be indifferent. They will 
give a complexion to your character, and affect your happi- 
ness favorably or unfavorably, millions of ages hence. They are 
as seed sown for eternity, and according to their nature so will 
be your harvest. It is impossible to escape from this alternative. 
"A sower went forth to sow." This describes at once your cha- 
racter and your occupation. You are a sower, and you are always 
sowing, either to the flesh or the spirit. Reflect upon those solemn 
words of the apostle: "Whatsoever a man soweth that shall he 
also reap ; he that soweth to the flesh shall of the flesh reap cor- 



16 

ruption ; but he that soweth to the spirit, shall of the spirit reap 
life everlasting." 

But if life is important as a season for the acquisition of good, 
it is not the less so as an opportunity for doing good. "While we 
have time," says the apostle, "let us do good unto all men; and 
especially unto them that are of the household of faith." When 
time with us is no more, the opportunity is gone. Our working 
time is but a "day," and then cometh "the night" — the night of 
death, "in which no man can work." So that, brethren, if we 
would do good, — and who can feel himself released from this 
duty, — we must do it in time — now, whilst we are blessed with 
the means and the opportunity. 

The ways of doing good to our fellow-creatures are almost 
innumerable. We may be useful to them intellectually and mo- 
rally, by establishing schools for the instructing of the ignorant, 
and the training them in the habits of virtue. We may be useful 
to them physically, by clothing the naked and feeding the hungry; 
by ministering to the wants of the sick, who, in their destitution 
and helplessness, have no one to care for them, and by helping 
forward those noble institutions whose special cares are extended 
to "the widow and fatherless in their afflictions." But the highest 
kind of good which man can do for his fellow-man, has reference 
to the soul in regard to its spiritual and eternal interests. " Let 
him know," says St. James, "that he who converteth a sinner 
from the error of his ways shall save a soul from death and hide 
a multitude of sins." But let me repeat that the opportunity of 
doing good is limited to this life. If not done here it never can 
be done. Therefore, " whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it 
with thy might ; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, 
nor wisdom, in the grave whither thou goest." 

It is not proper to make the pulpit a vehicle of eulogy for the 
dead. Its instructions and warnings are intended for the living, 
"For the grave cannot praise thee; death cannot celebrate thee; 
they that go down into the pit cannot hope for thy truth. The 
living, the living, he shall praise thee as I do this day; the father 
to the children shall make known thy truth." No eulogy, I am 
sure, is. expected on this occasion. Here it would be entirely out 
of place, as strongly contrasting with the retiring and unostenta- 
tious life of our venerable friend. And besides he needs no eulogy. 
This vast concourse, these bowed down heads and moistened eyes 
tell how sincerely he was esteemed, and how deeply his loss is felt. 



17 

His eulogy is already written in the hearts of his numerous friends, 
more honorable and more enduring than if it were engraven upon 
a monument of brass. 

But there were several prominent traits in his character which, 
in spite of his unobtrusiveness. would force themselves upon the 
notice of others. These were " like a city set upon a hill, that 
could not be hid." And it may be proper to speak of them here 
as an example to others.* I allude to the native overflowing 
kindness of his heart, and his rigid integrity of character, his love 
of truth and honesty. In regard to the former, no one could know 
him without perceiving it. No one could be brought under its 
influence without loving him. " The blessing of him that was 
ready to perish" in his misfortunes and embarrassments, relieved 
and strengthened by his generous aid, "came upon him;" and he 
"caused the widow's heart to sing for joy." 

The good which he did in this way was not by spasmodic efforts, 
as the result of moving appeals made to his sympathies, but the 
systematic carrying out of a plan which he had formed in early 
life, that when he should have acquired a certain amount of pro- 
perty he would appropriate a portion of the increase beyond that 
amount to the relief of the needy. To this plan he steadily ad- 
hered up to the hour of his death. But in extending this aid he 

* Of his great respect for the institutions of religion we have already spoken. 
But we would again refer to his example in this respect, as holding the language 
of strong rebuke to a large class of men, otherwise of the highest respectability, 
who seldom, if ever, give any public recognition of their obligations to worship 
God. Tf the example of such persons should come to be generally followed, it 
would lead to the abolition of the most important day in the calendar. With the 
abolition of the Sabbath, religion would soon be driven to the "dens and caves 
of the earth;" and the giant forms of infidelity would stalk abroad through the 
land, trampling down all that is lovely in the "virtue and sympathies of domestic 
life, all that is sacred in the bonds of social order and peace, and all that is dear 
to the hearts of the dying, in the hopes of another life. No thanks to the example 
of such persons if a happier state of private and public morals prevails. Should 
this note meet the eye of any such persons, the writer would beg them to consider 
whether, as parents, their example is such as they would wish their children to 
follow— whether, as good citizens and patriots, they are doing their duty to society 
and to the country. He would beg them to consider those wise counsels in the 
Farewell Address of the Father of his Country, where, after speaking of " religion 
and morality" as "the great pillars of human happiness," "the firmest props of 
the duties of men and citizens," he utters the following warning: "And let us with 
caution indulge the supposition that morality can be maintained without religion. 
Whatever may be conceded to the influence of lefined education on minds of 
peculiar structure, reason and experience both forbid us to expect that national 
morality can prevail in exclusion of religious principle." 
3 



18 

always exhibited those striking characteristic traits, his love of truth 
and honesty. To the honest and the industrious he ever shewed 
himself to be a friend in the time of need; and in not a few in- 
stances he had the happiness of enjoying the fruits of his bene- 
volence, not only in the grateful esteem, but also in the growing 
independence, and even affluence of those whom he had thus 
assisted. Happy would it be for society if more of our wealthy 
citizens would adopt a similar mode of usefulness. Many a 
poor, industrious young man, with a little aid so easily rendered 
by them, might be saved from want and ruin, and a channel opened 
for the application of his energies which would conduct him to 
respectability and influence, and in his turn prompt to similar kind 
acts in regard to others. The good thus effected might descend, 
in widening circles to distant generations. 

By his incorruptible integrity he inspired universal confidence. 
The lovely group of moral qualities which make up and attend this 
virtue, are amongst the things of which the apostle commands us to 
think, " Finally, brethren, whatsoever things are true, whatsoever 
things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are 
pure, whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever things are of good 
report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on 
these things." To his praise it may be spoken that the simple ut- 
terance of his word carried along with it as much security as the 
signatures and legal securities which are required of other men. 
Property in his hands was always considered safe, and the owner 
of it, with no other hold upon him than his honor, could lie down 
and sleep as quietly as though he had the proceeds of it locked 
up in his own strong vaults. I mention this virtue because it is 
of the utmost importance as an essential element of the well being 
of society, and it would be criminal to throw away the benefit of 
so rare an example of it. As exhibited by our venerable friend, 
with such unfailing purity, throughout a long life of varied and 
extensive business transactions, it assumes a loftiness and a sub- 
limity which might almost tempt one to be proud of his species. 
Such an example reminds us of the words of the prophet Samuel, 
when retiring from the active duties of life: "And now behold the 
king walketh before you; and I am old and grey-headed; and 
behold my sons are with you ; and I have walked before you from 
my childhood unto this day. Behold, here I am : witness against 
me before the Lord, and before his anointed ; whose ox have 1 
taken? or whose ass have I taken? or whom have I defrauded? 



19 

Whom have I oppressed ? or of whose hand have I received any 
bribe to blind mine eyes therewith? and I will restore it you." If 
such an appeal could have been made to you, without doubt you 
would all have responded as the people did to Samuel. "And 
they said thou hast not defrauded us, nor opprest us, neither hast 
thou taken aught of any man's hand." 

"He being dead yet speaketh." 

But, brethren, whilst we thus speak of these natural virtues — 
and when we think of the loveliness which they throw around 
human character, and their effects upon the good order and 
happiness of society, we cannot speak of them too highly — 
and though I would endeavor to press them upon your attention, 
as worthy of your earnest cultivation, yet I would, at the same 
time, warn you against the evil of laboring to acquire them apart 
from the sanctions and aids of the Gospel ; or of trusting to their 
exercise when thus acquired, as constituting any part of the ground 
of a sinner's acceptance before God. To Him, we must come as 
debtors, having nothing to pay — trusting alone to His clemency 
for our acquittal. We must come as sinners justly condemned, 
but yet hoping for pardon in the blood of the atonement. As 
weak and helpless, but yet as trusting all, and committing all to 
Him who " is able to save unto the uttermost, all that come to 
God by Him." How else should a sinner, sensible of his many 
transgressions, come? Where else can he find the assurance of 
pardon and of hope, but in Him who has authority to bid him 
come? and whose own lips have pronounced those cheering words, 
"Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden and I will 
give you rest." Ye, who feel your sins to be an intolerable bur- 
den, "Come, and lay them down at his feet." Come, and ye shall 
find "rest for your souls." Ye, whose hearts have been saddened 
by affliction, or pierced by bereavement, come. Here is grace 
to sustain, to comfort, to heal you. 

"Come, freely come, by sin opprest, 

On Jesus cast thy weighty load; 
In h ina thy refuge find, thy rest, 

Safe in the mercy of thy God; 
Thy God's thy Saviour! glorious word! 

O hear, believe, and bless the Lord!" 



At a meeting of the Vestry of St. John's Church, Henrico Parish, held on the 
27th of October, 1851, the following preamble and resolution's were unanimously 
adopted : 

Whereas, it has pleased Almighty God, in the dispensation of his holy and 
unsearchable providence, suddenly to remove from our midst our aged and 
esteemed friend, Mr. John Enders, Sr. who, for many years, had fathfully served 
the congregation of St. John as a Vestryman and also as Treasurer of the Parish ; 
therefore, 

Resolved, That our venerated friend, by the overflowing kindness of his heart, 
his unobtrusive manners, his great moral worth, and the untiring energy with 
which he discharged his duties as Vestryman and Treasurer, had greatly endeared 
himself to the members of the congregation and of this body. 

Resolved, That we deeply sympathize with his bereaved family in their irrepa- 
rable loss, and that a committee be appointed to prepare and transmit to them, 
with these resolutions, a letter of condolence. 

Resolved, That the Register be requested to send a copy of these resolutions to 
the editors of the city papers and of the Southern Churchman for publication. 

THOMAS M. SMITH, Register. 



., -a^-;;.; 



